Tides of Marowind
by fieldandfountain
Summary: Prince Hans, shamed and exiled from the Southern Isles, gains a position as Captain of the Guard in the land of Marowind, ruled by Prince Eric. But Hans finds himself fascinated with Eric's fiancée Ariel, a strange girl from the sea who reminds him of the princess he cruelly betrayed. As Ariel grows increasingly isolated at court, Hans treads a dangerous path in seeking atonement.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N Warning: This story has darker tone, and is more mature in content than Frozen, and especially TLM, but still PG- no sex and not much violence. I put it in the Frozen section as it is mostly from Hans's perspective and Frozen handles some harder issues, while TLM is a lighter movie. Also OOC Eric? Eric is kind of a jerk in this, not evil, but selfish (shellfish). He wasn't fully fleshed out in the movie, so perhaps this characterization is something of a darker interpretation of his character and internal thoughts. He is closer to the prince in the original Hans Christian Anderson. So don't read if this upsets you._

 _The story begins after Triton turned Ariel human and she has been at court several weeks. They are not yet married. While not the case in the movie, Ariel has slight physical differences that can be seen, but one if looks very closely. The sequel and prequel do not exist here. In my mind Eric's principality is a mix between Denmark and the Caribbean (with the colorful fish and coral, but European castle and white people), but I am keeping it firmly rooted in the North Sea region (near Denmark and Germany) for its connection with Corona and Arendelle and am naming it Marowind. Marowind is an independent principality, meaning that Eric is, and will remain a prince. And, as a Marowind is a coastal principality, and fish eat fish, catching and eating fish is not quite such a crime as was presented in the movie!_

A change was slowly drifting through the lands around the Northern Waters, and whether it was a curse or blessing could not yet be divined.

First Corona had found its princess, locked in a tower for eighteen years, and the golden haired baby had returned with shorn locks and a thief at her side. Some said the hair had contained a magical healing power- the Queen after all, had been saved by drinking a tea made from a legendary flower. As for the thief, rumors abounded. There were whispers that he had shorn the golden hair, and finding it worthless when cut, had satisfied himself with the princess herself. Others said he held the locks in his possession, and through them was able to influence the princess and her family.

Next was Arendelle, a kingdom of the far north, whose Queen, who had always been something of a mystery, cast her kingdom in eternal winter on her own coronation day, only to gain control over her magic and thaw the land. The other countries were quiet and overawed, frightened by the martial possibilities of her incredible power.

And now it had come their land. Their prince, Eric, the prince of Marowind, was marrying a woman-if she truly could be termed that- from the sea. A mermaid transformed. The _melusine_ the French cook called her, and he, who for all his life had delighted in slicing fish, avoided her. She had gone shyly to the servants, saying her name. _Ariel_. She forgot all sense of regality and even shook their hands with an excessive vigor as though delighting in the custom. Her way was much less formal, childlike even, and many warmed to her against their superstitions. It could not be so bad to have a change, a sense of something kinder and a hint of magic.

But still there was whispering at court: he could have married better, it was bad luck to bring an unfamiliar creature into their midst, and what enchantments might she know? It was hard to look at her and believe her anything but innocent, but with her pure blue eyes and the unusual brilliance of her red hair, she was not quite of their world.

Eric's council had their words against the marriage. What of her familiars, her father who seemed to wield the power of a god? King Triton had for so long a spine-shivering myth, and his reality unsettled the populace. What enemies might they make in the depths- krakens and other monsters who would view them through this alliance as a natural enemy. All was well now, and they were promised fair passage, so important to a seafaring land. But were anything to go wrong, the wrath of the sea might destroy them. And even if they could find calm among themselves, so many of their men found their livelihood in fishing, and sailors and fisherman were notoriously superstitious.

But Eric was used to his own way. Perhaps he was given too much power at too young an age. Recently, he had spent much of his time roaming the seas, earning him the epitaph 'The Sailor Prince.' Before that were feats on horseback, and an intense study of astronomy. The only interest that held any permanent power over him was music. In his courtier's eyes, he spent far too much time indulging in concerts and playing on his flute. But he knew he was the Prince, and had been so since early youth.

It was no easy task to be a boy and supposed well-wishers who wished to steal his crown had flocked around him. But he was fortunate in Grimsby, his father's bumbling but clever retainer, who guided him through the shoals of leadership. Eric was well liked for his friendly, open demeanor, though some of his councilmen wished he would spend more time tending to government. He took for granted his servants' deference, his palace, his title, and he believed that the heavy responsibility of his position allowed him a little fun.

His retainers reminded him again and again of the importance of a strategic marriage for the security of the principality. What of Vidensia? They asked. The princess Rowena was second in line to the throne, the implied undertone being that if anything were to happen to her older brother, Eric would gain control over both Marowind and Vidensia. But Eric, enraptured by music, _would_ marry for love.

And Ariel was beautiful, with an angelic voice. His mother, who also had red hair, though auburn, had sung to him until the day she died, and his flute was all he had left of her. He bitterly regretted throwing it in the ocean, but it had washed up on the shore the day Ariel came back to him, almost as an omen. The sound, if anything, was purer and bright as the rays of sun cast over the waves. As for an alliance, what better alliance could he ask for than with the man- merman, god, being, he couldn't say- the man who held power over the sea, the main source of his kingdom's livelihood? Triton loved his daughter with a power that he almost envied, barely having known his own father. No enemy ships would fire their cannons while she remained at his side.

 _The sea is changeable and deep. Do not trust the sea_ , they told him, but Ariel, the personification of the sea, was a girl of perfect innocence. What chance was there that she would save him? What man in millennia had won the love of the daughter of a sea king? There must be more at play than chance. And he grew angry with them, giving them an angry dressing down in council, not so much in defense of his fiancée, but for the fact they had pestered him for long to settle down, and had the gall to cast judgment on his choice.

He did most of the talking in their time with Ariel, though he could tell she was bursting with questions she was still too shy to ask. She did seem nervous during their time together, even after all these weeks, though when he showed her affection, her response was joyous. He knew now of the pact she had made with that demon of the sea, putting her body and soul and even her kingdom at risk just for a _chance_ to win his heart.

 _I mean everything to her_. It was a pleasing thought, but at the same time the responsibility was unsettling. It was almost too much. Perhaps self-sacrifice was a feature of her species- no, he frowned at that word, _species_ , as though their union was an abomination - a feature of her _kind_. Perhaps saving his life had bound her to him in a way beyond his comprehension. But he knew of no human who would do what she had done, and no, though he had courage, and had slain the sea witch, he would not have done it either.

Ariel hung on his every word, and seemed especially excited by those that were foreign to her, and repeated them again and again until her pronunciation was perfect. If he turned away for too long, studying a passing ship, she would grasp arm, as though begging him to return to her. She made him laugh, and it was sweeter to lean in and kiss her, and sweeter still to let her sing for him.


	2. Chapter 2

_One Month Previously_

Three years. Three years since his youthful plot had failed. Hans, Prince of the Southern Isles and Captain of the Guard of Marowind, was a man who processed numbers in his head, who had no choice but calculate and relive his every decision. He did not want to make anniversaries of his evils and failings, but it was inevitable he would remember.

It was no pleasant event, his release from jail cell he had been confined to on the Morning Star, the ship that had carried him home in ignominy from Arendelle. He had not been harmed in body, but his keepers had little thought for his personal dignity on the week's journey, and he emerged from the ship stinking and ill, with his clothes in tatters.

It was nearly night when he arrived at the dock, and his brothers were not there to meet him. It would not be wise to make a show of their brother's disgrace. Hans was grateful for the secrecy. He was apprehended immediately upon arrival and though he ordered them to unhand him- he was their _prince_ \- the soldiers were silent and turned their heads from him. He was quickly thrust into a carriage, one guard at each side, and was jostled uphill at high speed along the cobblestones.

The king had demanded to see him immediately upon arrival, and he was shuffled into the throne room. The guards pushed him to see his knees and he lifted his head to see all twelve of his older brothers, with King Lars on the throne, his wife Queen Grunna by his side, and the rest piled around, watching him. If only they had given him time to bathe, to present himself with some dignity, but he knew how he looked to them. The younger brothers, those that teased him in his youth, wore barely concealed smirks, and among the rest were looks ranging from rage to disgust, and from Peder, his wise, gentle seventh brother, pity. Lars wore no expression, but spoke clearly. Hans wondered where he had gained such a booming voice. There were nearly twenty years between them, but he did not remember the exact moment when his oldest brother had changed from the boisterous young man who would flirt with his nursemaids and toss him in the air to the firm and still ruler with speeches that reverberated through the throne room and beyond.

Hans had attempted the murder of one of their closest allies. It had been done with subtlety, and could be put down by most nations as a mistake, particularly considering the circumstances- an _ice queen_ , a woman with the power to freeze over a kingdom, her own kingdom, was enough to give pause to any ruler. Only Arendelle would not forgive them, and they could not risk the enmity of a country so powerful. The Southern Isles had kept its sovereignty for millennia, but its position was always precarious. The Kingdom was composed of an archipelago at the base of several larger powers, all of whom would have liked to claim it for themselves. Any true claim, and they would pounce. One of these powers was Arendelle, though they had shown no sign of claiming the country in recent years, as they had no pretext to invade. That Hans had given them.

The greatest strength of the Southern Isles had always been diplomacy, playing countries off each other in an attempt to retain their independence. Lars already struggled with popular unrest as the harvest that year had been poor, and many had gone hungry. His younger brother, in a grasp for power, had gone beyond foolishness. From what had been said, Hans could easily have married the younger princess. But attempt to murder her? Lars's cheeks burned at the thought of such dishonor on their ancient house, the house of Westerguard.

It would have been in Hans's nature at that time to deny all charges, to scramble for excuses and perhaps land on a good one. But he had been involved in too many plots, scheming with his brothers and without them, for his word to have any power anymore. He would have to be dealt with.

 _And the best way to do that was to make him disappear._

No, they would not execute him. They were still brothers, the thirteen of them, and they would not kill one of their own. But he must leave the Southern Isles so he was no longer a liability, and preferably go some place obscure and quiet and be forgotten.

They thought of their aunt, long dead, who had married the former Prince of Marowind. The land was small enough, merely a seaside principality, to not create a great deal of attention. The current prince, Eric, and Hans, who was a few years older, had gotten along well on their few meetings. Hans, for all his faults, was a capable fighter and military leader. He would serve as Captain of the Guard, a good enough position for a thirteenth son with a questionable past. They knew their cousin Eric to be good-natured, and it would be no kind deed to send Hans to his court, but it had to be done.

Hans had thought to protest- no longer would he be referred to 'Prince', but 'Captain', and he would be subject to his younger cousin, and the demotion was not one he could easily stomach. But he realized the scope of his crimes. He had never expected them to come to light- simply to step out as the King and savior of Arendelle and outshine even Lars. He had not even planned on killing Anna, or even, perhaps Elsa, though he couldn't say he had ruled out the possibility if necessary. She had been shut away most of her life, shrouded in mystery. It was said she did not attend her parents' own funeral, and he had seen her tremble at her coronation. With his knowledge of court life, there was little question she did not have the tools or the supporters to withstand a coup, a coup he would arrange with Anna as his bride.

And then events had fallen into place, faster than he could have anticipated: Anna was near death when she came to him, and Elsa had committed a heinous crime, one that easily merited execution. It had been too easy, and it seemed that he was the only one to keep a clear head in the midst of the chaos. He would have been a good king: he had won the respect and love of Arendelle within days, and his conduct and the lives he would change would in time wipe clean his misdeeds. All he wanted was to wear the crown, the crown that since his early days he had been told- always with derision- would never be his. But he underplayed his ambition. What were the lives of a couple of girls- girls who had been so damaged that it would be a mercy to release them, to the stability of a kingdom?

 _What indeed._

He lived a rougher life now, at the edge of the sea. His hair had grown out so it fell over his brow and the small of his neck, he wore looser clothes more suited to a warrior than a prince, and those who had known him would say his speech was less polished, or perhaps less slick. That was the effect of living among soldiers. He had been treated with suspicion since the day of his arrival, by all but his men and Eric, who seemed to revel in his company.

Hans liked the young man, who seemed more like a boy to him. It was no surprise, as everybody liked Eric, though Hans found him strangely lacking in any particular quality that made him different than any other pleasant young man. It did feel good to be trusted, confided in, even if Eric's dreams were vague and romantic and removed from the reality of a true courtier's life.

It was true that Marowind had very little of court life- balls were few and far between, and usually involved the arrival of a dozen country maidens from the inland. Eric had advisors and Grimsby, who was half a servant and half a prime minister of sorts, who wielded incredible political clout without knowing or caring- or so it seemed. He wondered if the gangly old man, with his confused air and large nose, was far more astute than he seemed. Either way, Hans would often line up the pieces, like a game of chess, aware that he could influence this courtier or that, and Eric and perhaps Grimsby were sitting ducks. Eric was not a boy meant to rule, and Hans could have stepped him, influenced-no, _helped_ him-somewhat, and though it was a constant temptation, some unwanted qualm held him back. With the thought of maneuvering came a sick feeling, much like the seasickness he had suffered on his infamous journey back to the Southern Isles.

He took greater pleasure now in arranging his soldiers, keeping the inland free from sedition and maintaining order in the city. He was a ruler, on a smaller scale, and it pleased him to call out commands and have them instantly followed. His men liked him and some even took pleasure in his seedy past- he couldn't claim moral superiority, but more he was willing to grasp at what he wanted whatever risk.

This did not sit well with Hans. His time in Arendelle barely seemed like a reality, and it was easier to feel this way when his sojourn had been a time of enchantment, of a curse.

As time passed, he nearly led himself to believe that he too had been under a curse. _Only two girls against the destiny of Kingdom._ This had been his rationale as he fell asleep at night, but the older he grew, the staler the tale became. And then the names would come to him. _Two girls_ was vague and simple concept. But he had known them, and with time, now that the adrenaline and push toward power was a mere memory, his understanding and remembrance of them grew stronger rather than otherwise.

 _Elsa_ \- regal, frightened, lovely, and powerful. His memory was clearest in her prison cell, with her hands shackled and her horror at her inability to reverse her deeds. _Can't you see? I can't._ Only now, after long experience, he _did_ see.

 _Anna_ \- sparkling, clever, playful, and unsure. Anna, who had trusted him without question- so foolish and eager and lost- and he had put out the fire and left her in the icy chamber, left her so her body would freeze over and he could claim the crown. He had seen a full-page engraving of her in the newspaper, and had quickly tossed it aside, but the image was burned in his brain. Her youthful braids were gone- her hair, intertwined with ribbons, was piled high on her head, and her look was serene, but with an impish smile in the corner of her mouth. There was a child in her arms, a child that stared out at the world.

Anna was married, to a man of no lineage or birth, the menial woodsman Hans had seen briefly before he left. The image from the newspaper flashed through his mind at night, not in black and white as it had been in the portrait, but in full color, with the strawberry blonde hair flaming, and a rosy hue on her cheeks, the infant clutching its mother and staring at him with the eyes of an adult. He did not know where the ache came from, and it was not from love.


	3. Chapter 3

Hans finally arrived in the capital after weeks patrolling the inland. Marowind was at peace, but the journey had taken a toll on him. He was often asked to sit in judgment at trials and over land disputes, and though he had always enjoyed making decisions, it made him strangely uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the word itself- _judgment_. He constantly made choices: which battalion to train and when and how, which soldiers to promote and who to keep an eye on, but that was different. They were actions, and he knew his men.

But to judge strangers and see a midwife paraded out in chains, to watch a grim little man in a grim little chair shiver and wait for his sentence: it turned his stomach. Hans didn't know them, and he didn't want to be involved. And yet it was his expected duty, and promoted his standing in the various towns and counties. He generally gave vague advice. Hans had his secretary come up with a list of banal statements he could recite without feeling, and that gave him the sense the words were not his own.

In earlier years, in the Southern Isles, he would have relished the task: grimacing at this man, or beaming at that one, and given impassioned speeches while reaching out his arms. But now he suffered from unwanted pangs of conscience. This was justice but it was unjust. He didn't know the prisoners. They had lived lives of poverty, and this wasn't even his country. But most disturbing all, he could see _himself_ shackled, sitting listlessly in that grim little chair, and even feel the contempt of the crowd.

His ability to visualize was expanding. If he were the type of man to spit- he hadn't come down that far in the world- he would have. He was no artist to paint images in his head, images of himself and his surroundings, and the people he had seen and wronged, and he would gladly cast this _gift_ to hell.

When he first passed through the city gates, he was surprised by the tolling of bells, loud, joyous and persistent. Every church in the city reverberated with sound.

"What is this uproar?" he cried to the gatekeepers, reining in his horse. If there was anything he hated, it was being ill informed. Their chief descended to the road.

"Good morrow to you, Captain!" he called. "Prince Eric has been saved!"

For a fraction of a second, Han's face darkened but he forced himself to smile. He did not want to admit his ignorance. "Yes, that was a close call," he said. "I'm glad it wasn't something more serious," he said, fishing for information.

"More serious, Sir? You must be in jest! It was a miracle when he washed up on shore."

Hans turned to his aide-de-camp. "Find out what happened. _Immediately._ " he ordered.

Ten minutes later, the man returned, breathless. Eric's ship had gone under two nights previously, and he had not been in any of the lifeboats, in fact, nowhere to be seen. The palace had been in chaos, but the Prince was discovered in the morning, washed ashore and unharmed.

Hans face froze and he clutched the reins so tightly that his leather gloves creaked. A deep misgiving overcame him. It had been a window of time, an opportunity and a great one, and though the frustration mounted, he breathed a ragged sigh. He had been spared temptation, and it was in truth a mercy.

* * *

Hans trotted to the stables, his brow furrowed as he dismounted and handed his horse to the groom. Too many strange things had occurred in his absence, and he would have to be sure it didn't happen again. Perhaps the cursed inland patrol duty could come to an end.

"I wonder how he's recovering," Hans murmured to himself. He never could tell with that boy. He ran his fingers through his hair, but a rough and salty wind tore up from the shore, tousling his head again. He inhaled deeply. It was a relief to be near the water. He had never lived far from the ocean, and he felt constricted too deep inland. The ocean was grand, vast, and constantly in flux, and its rapid changes in tone in some contradictory way steadied him, as though it could absorb his thoughts and fluctuations in mood.

He marched into the castle, nodding to the guards on post, who saluted in turn. He marched through the great hall with its naval memorabilia: painted figureheads- mermaids, sea serpents, and the charging horses-of famous ships long turned to driftwood, and busts and paintings of the legendary admirals and captains of Marowind. Turning to left, to the ballroom with its stately staircase, he stopped in his tracks.

Eric often engaged in dalliances with women high and low. It was no odd thing for a handsome young man, and a prince besides. How far they went, Hans rarely inquired. They never lasted, and that was what mattered most.

But Hans gaped at the girl before him. She was dressed in what could only be canvas, and tattered at that. It was not stitched into a proper dress, but clumsily tied around her body with a rope, and she was barefoot with her lower legs fully exposed. She hung onto Eric as though she would collapse into a heap without him, and he laughed, enjoying the farce. Eric's sheepdog leaped at his side, eager to join in.

Hans's ears began to ring as he studied her, and, unsteady himself, he slumped against the wall. No _, no_. She was too much like _her_ , but simultaneously not like her at all. A cloud shifted, and beams of afternoon light shone through the high windows. The girl looked up, held out her fingers in the stream of sunshine, and her lips parted in wonder.

The likeness was great indeed- the light-hued and eager eyes, searching and curious, the slim, playful lips, and red hair. He swallowed. But there had been something earthy about Anna, rosy cheeked and freckled as she was, while this girl was pearlescent, as though she had stepped fresh from a milk bath. Anna had been clumsy too, but she, even as she struggled like a colt on her legs, moved with a singular grace. And the hair- all thirteen brothers of his family boasted red hair in some shade or another, but nothing like this. The hue was unnaturally brilliant, more like blood than the setting sun. He shook his head as though to clear his vision.

Grimsby startled him from reverie. He stood by Hans's side in the shadows. "Our prince has been delivered. Returned to us. I'm sure you were briefed."

"I know the details," he said with a single nod. "Heaven be praised," he added quickly.

"Perhaps we should thank Triton below," said the old man, bemused. "Really, wonders never cease. This young lady was stranded on the shore but two hours ago, and our Eric came her rescue."

"She was stranded?" asked Hans incredulously. Her hair, though loose, was not in disarray, and beyond her inability to stand, she seemed perfectly at ease, even joyous. That look, the way she stared at Eric- he knew it well, and he tensed. Someone once had looked at him with the same adoration, and had paid for it.

He fixed his eyes on her. No marks, no bruises to suggest a struggle in the water, a brush against the rocks, and she seemed quite content in her ridiculous get up.

"Come, let me introduce you," said Grimsby kindly, not that Hans put much faith in the old man's kindness.

"My dear," called Grimsby. He led Hans out into the light. Up close her skin gleamed, and her hair was fire itself. She could not have been more than seventeen, and likely younger. She looked to Eric for what seemed like reassurance, before turning to Hans with large blue eyes, and her mouth opened slightly.

The expression was so innocent, and yet so brazen. Usually when he encountered Eric with one of these girls, they would turn away slightly, if low born, and if of higher station, they would drop him a curtsy, and at most a low greeting. It was not a respectable position to be found in. Grimsby seemed to think well enough of her, but with him one never knew.

Having enough of being stared at, Hans bowed slightly. "Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, Captain of the Guard of Marowind." Was Eric rolling his eyes? Hans scowled. Captain of the Guard would have done, surely, but he had his suspicions, and wanted to impress his full importance on her.

She only nodded and a smiled so brightly, and with such a lack of reserve that it took him aback. No curtsey, no name. There was a pause, and her smile faded.

"She's unable to speak," whispered Grimsby. "Mute."

Hans started.

"So good to have you back, Hans," said Eric, slapping him on the shoulder and grinning. "You heard of my scape with fate? Will you join us for dinner?" Hans felt a keen urge to find out more, but he knew it was a formality. Eric preferred to dine alone, or occasionally with Grimsby to maintain a facade of respectability, when it came to the girls he romanced.

"Thank you, but I've been gone too long and have much to take care of." He smiled and bowed to the girl, and turned on his heels and left.

* * *

That night in his chamber, Hans sat at his desk, a low light flickering as the ocean churned below, a decanter of brandy at his side. His suspicions grew with the ticking of the clock. _Mute. She was mute._ It was far too convenient. What a way to hide a telltale accent, whether low-born or foreign. He would have to go over what countries were currently a threat. Washed up on shore, without a scratch? _Ridiculous._ She seemed far too young, too innocent to be a spy, but perhaps that exactly why she was chosen. She might even be older than she appeared.

Hans groaned and lifted his feet up onto the table. Eric was too sucked in, his vanity gratified by her fawning, to notice anything amiss. And Grimsby- the man was suspiciously calm, especially after the Prince's near drowning. Too many strange things were afoot.

Hans wasn't sure why it bothered him so deeply. There were spies and connivers in every country and most of them would fail. _He did_. Though he could pay lip service to Eric and Marowind, he knew what truly drove him. It was the desire to _know:_ to not _be_ deceived as he _had_ deceived.

And though he wouldn't confess it, what he hated most was this churning within him that her mere presence elicited, the presence that for all its oddities was so like the girl he had once known. It was like a haunting, a living ghost, and he knew it would burn into him like a brand, far worse than that newspaper engraving ever had. He buried his face in hands. _Was he being tested_?

A moment passed. Slowly he lifted up his face from his hands, his expression grim. She was an imposter, and certainly no mute, and he would see to it she was exposed. _Come what may, he would make her talk._


	4. Chapter 4

Hans woke up early the next morning, as though he had set an internal clock. The drapes were not open, the servant did not wake him and it could just as well be black outside as morning. But groaning, he lifted himself to curtains, and parted them to watch the first glittering rays bounce off of the ocean. His squinted, and then, remembering his mission, his gaze opened wide, and he even took pleasure in the beauty of the scene. His aide-de-camp was on patrol, so he called for a servant he barely knew. An awkward looking man, he thought with a frown, who would be sure to leave his tailcoat wrinkled and collar crooked.

After dressing, and thoroughly examining himself in the mirror, he realized the man had done well and pressed a small coin into his palm. Hans resided in the right wing of the palace, near the training grounds, and made his way through a stoic stone hallway, weathered and ancient, that would have pleased any old soldier, to the newer, brilliant ballroom.

Eric was striding its length, whether practicing a dance or military maneuvers, Hans couldn't say. He was dressed in the same blue trousers, loose shirt, and broad scarlet belt, though new and in the finest material. Hans could not help thinking that the casual nature of his clothes was intentional, a romantic snub at convention and an affirmation of his role as the Sailor Prince. He was impressed in spite of himself.

"Good morning, Captain!" said Eric, saluting him ironically. Hans had a brief urge to frown, but they had gotten on like this for ages, recognizing their mutual roles and laughing at them.

"And to you, Captain," Hans retorted. Eric was indeed a Captain, of the Golden Venture, a ship he had christened himself. Eric seemed to wonder whether to take offence, before laughing and slapping his shoulder.

"It is a day of wonders, is it not?" he said, grinning.

"Yesterday certainly was," said Hans dryly.

Eric laughed again. "You came at the wrong moment- or the right one."

"It was…a spectacle." said Hans.

"But she cleaned up very well. She's a true beauty." Eric sighed, and sat on the stair. "But it's not _her_."

Hans nodded. He knew the boy was convinced that he had been saved by a woman with an enchanting voice. One couldn't wonder at such delusions; Eric had nearly drowned.

"So she didn't speak a word?"

Eric looked at him as though he were simple. "She's _mute_ , Hans _. Of course_ she didn't say anything."

"But you intend to keep her around?"

"Where else would she go? She's great fun, really." Eric grinned. "Last night she took Grim's pipe and blew the ashes into his face!"

Hans's face contorted slightly. It was a bizarre thing to do.

"And she brushed her hair with a fork!" He laughed, and then pursed his lips. "But I don't think she's a bad girl, just a little wrong in the head."

"You don't think she's an actress, then?" Hans said, eyeing his cousin keenly.

"Heavens, no. She blushed up to her ears when we stared at her. And looked very pretty doing it too. But strange. Strange indeed." Eric laughed low, and shook his head.

Hans felt a stirring of doubt, and also a confusion that did not sit well with him. He had little idea of what the girl was playing at. It was one thing to be the mute damsel lost on the shore at the castle's edge, wrapped in canvas in just the right way, and quite another to perform such odd tricks. One had all the makings of a charlatan, the other suggested an eccentricity, that her mind was somewhat turned. He was far less comfortable with the second notion, as he could not control it.

She appeared at the head of the stairs looking anything but mad, dressed in simple but elegant blue dress, with long sleeves and a black bodice. It surprised Hans that she didn't look better than she had the day before, when dressed in canvas and rope. Not worse, to be sure, with her glistening skin and large, questioning eyes, but she seemed a flexible creature, not quite bound to any costume, whether tarpaulin or silk. Her footing was uncertain as she descended, but she was still as graceful as a born duchess.

All the while, her eyes were set on Eric, who folded his arms and smiled, accepting his due. Her pace didn't falter as she walked off the last step, and Hans wondered whether she would fall into Eric's arms. _Anna would have_.

Hans shuddered and nearly stepped back. The name only slipped into his thoughts in the lonely, pensive hours of night. Never during the daylight, when all things were clear and he tended to his duty. In this way he treated his private miseries like luxuries, both sacred and forbidden.

But the girl hadn't fallen into Eric. He was too quick for that, offering his arm. She looked at him in momentary confusion. _Was it shyness or simplicity?_ Eric winked at Hans, and taking her tapered fingers in his hands, he placed them in the crook of his arm. There was both the gentleman and the libertine in the sequence, the wink and the grasp of the girl's hand.

Hans paused as they walked past him. She was staring down at her own hand in wonder, as though the crook of Eric's arm were of the utmost enchantment. _Was she holding her breath?_ A surprising pang of conscience overcame him, though, fool or actress, surely he should not be worried on her account.

 _Eric is_ \- and here he paused, as he had always finished the sentence with flippant good will. _Eric is a likeable prince, Eric is good fun, a fine fellow._ No one ever called Eric a good man, though he distributed alms in the city and was received a hearty cheer when he stood before his people, not something every ruler could claim.

Hans shook his head. His own words to a shivering girl echoed in his head. _You were willing to marry me, just like that._ He shuddered and his shoulders tensed. Surely he was no man to judge another, and he had a job to do. Hans followed the couple to the breakfast room.

All the nobles and higher-ranking officers were allowed a seat at the breakfast table, but when Hans walked in it was just the two of them. Eric pulled out a seat for the girl, but shyly shaking her head she hurried to the other side. Eric, taking it for a game, rushed after her, and she laughed lightly as his fingers grazed her waist. She slipped into the seat, and her eyes fixed on the window. They grew wider, if possible, and Hans realized she was staring at the sea.

"Is everything alright, sweetheart?" Eric asked, seating himself at the head of the table. That word - _sweethear_ t-irritated Hans. It was a term that a man did not use with his equal, not until they were betrothed at least. There was no doubt that they were not indeed equals, but it lacked, well, respect. She might not be fully in her senses, but that was a reason to be- and it dawned on him. _He no longer suspected her_.

She pursed her lips before shaking her head, and realizing that shaking her head meant 'no,'' she nodded. Almost pulling her eyes from the sea, she looked at her hands, as though they contained some precious item, and they very may well have, little as he knew her.

Hans slid into the seat opposite. Two servants rolled in trays of steaming eggs, bread, various confitures, and coffee, and served them.

Eric ate with vigor; he was active and always hungry. He dashed the jam over his bread, and the girl watched him with what could only be wonder, tilting her head like a curious bird. Hans ate slowly, carefully, observing the couple, and he almost wondered if the girl had ever eaten before, so strangely did she approach the food before her.

She tilted her fork, and pushed it downwards like a gull diving at the water. She nibbled at the tiniest piece of scrambled egg, and fanned her mouth. _She really is turned in the head_.

Eric merely laughed. "Hot isn't it?"

She nodded.

Next she approached the coffee, made anxious by her earlier experience. She touched the cup and quickly retracted her finger.

"You're so sensitive!" said Eric, and she frowned. Were those tears in her eyes? Eric picked up his cup and blew on it. "This will make it cooler."

Blinking back her eyes, she picked up the cup by its handle and blew, but with far too much force, so that the coffee splashed across the table onto Hans's neck, chin, and cravat. Eric burst into loud laughter, and Hans's jaw dropped as he wiped his face.

"What exactly is _wrong_ with you?"

He realized, to his shock, that he had said it aloud.

She stared at him in shock, and her hands trembled. She lost her grip on the cup so it crashed to the ground.

"Hans!" shouted Eric, as she pulled back the chair and fled the room. "The lady is my guest." He shook his head as he watched her slip down the hallway and out of sight. "She really is good fun. But too sensitive. Don't worry Hans." He patted his cousin on the shoulder. "I'll take her out for a while. She's spooked, but I'll get her back in shape."

 _She's not a horse_ , thought Hans, watching Eric stride down the hall. It was all a sport to him. He grimaced. He had been called many things- cowardly, manipulative, deceptive, and yet he had never lost his temper, forgotten his manners. Hans thought of his younger self, how much he would have delighted in making sport of a girl like this, half-mad and seemingly aware of it. But it would always be in secret, behind her back.

Were such outbursts then an improvement? He sneered, but not at her. At his growing lack of control, his ineptitude. And his thoughts turned, as they did with increasing frequency, to Anna. Anna- why _not_ call her by her name? It was his burden, and if he were going to lose his mind, he wouldn't shrink around it anymore.

Anna had slipped on the dance floor the evening they met, and with a single elegant motion, he had caught her in his arms and deposited his glass of champagne on a passing dish. Anna had always slipped, stumbled on her words, gazed up at him in nervous admiration, and always he had made the transition simple, as he had been trained to do, and put her at ease.

And yet this girl, with such grace, and yet such outlandish, foolish fragility, he had just lost his tongue. But Anna had been foolish, and fragile too, fragile as ice. He shuddered as though back in the frigid chamber. He had spoken well enough then, a declaration of unadulterated cruelty.

Three years he had worked to bring some stability to his his life, ordering troops, ordering his advisors, and bringing towns to order. And yet order was not enough to calm him. For all his efforts, a vast, unrecognizable hollow was eating away at him, a sensation that had been with him for some time, but had only come to full bloom when he had met this half-mad girl.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Many thanks to all my reviewers, especially Shawn Raven and SharKohen for your excellent insight. This is fun to write, and even more fun with thoughtful feedback!_

* * *

Hans sat by the fire, his legs on the ottoman. The sun sank over the horizon, and it was sleepy work, keeping his eyes on the text. It was a naval manual, and one with far too many outdated precepts. Having grown up in a kingdom with a formidable navy, he was well aware of many of the concepts, but it had become increasingly clear since his arrival how necessary it was to integrate army strategy with that of the navy. He didn't particularly like Admiral Von Molk, who lacked the discipline one would expect of a soldier, but he planned to grit his teeth and work closely with him, even if he had to pretend to get sloppy drunk to do so.

It was naturally too late to go as a career sailor, as it was a vocation that began in the early teens, but it had been a family tradition, and as a child he had played with wooden ships, not soldiers. His two closest brothers in age, Nils and Johan, the ones who made his youth the most wretched, had both become naval officers and had rubbed his face in it. The mocking undertone was, with his carefulness in dress and behavior, that he lacked the hardiness essential to a sailor. But he knew for fact that they used their position as Princes of the Southern Isles to shirk duties and get rations and privileges that made the other ensigns writhe with envy.

It would have been natural for him to join their ranks to spite them, but the idea of spending the next six years in their company had turned his stomach. That and the seasickness, which was a poorly kept secret. In any case, he wanted complete mastery of naval tactics, if not in practice, then at the very least in theory.

Hans's favorite Aid-de-Camp Andrik, who had been sent out on patrol earlier slipped in the room, and lit a lamp. Hans blinked rapidly. All this time he had been thinking, and night had closed around them, while he thought he had been reading.

And he looked up at Andrik's familiar, broad face with its steady, thoughtful eyes. Andrik, though of low birth, was the closest thing he had to a friend. It was a shame he constantly had to send him away on missions, but he was the only one he could fully trust.

He would never have admitted that he envied Andrik, but the man was the soul of honesty, and more, honor. He also had courage, and had openly questioned Hans's decisions from the first, a feature that had initially set him against the young man.

 _"Is that a good idea, Sir?" "What about your promise, Sir?"_

Hans had struggled with concepts of duty in his first year as Captain of the Guard, and a fierce and ugly urge to regain the stature he had lost in his family's eyes. So he made elaborate plans, only to abandon them in a panicked haste. He had only revealed himself once, about a possible siege of the Capitol of a neighboring principality, a tiny but advantageously located peninsula called Dranhilde, unsanctioned by the Eric. And Andrik's face had betrayed a rare alarm.

 _"What about the township, Sir? What about the people, Sir? What about the women and children, Sir?"_

These perpetual questions had appeared in his dreams, and Andrik, tall, towheaded, and straightforward, had lost his position, and possibly any opportunity for advancement, all for his impertinence in questioning.

But soon after Hans fell into a fever, and upon waking, he saw it was that dogged man, Andrik, pressing a cool cloth to his brow as he had done for the past week, he realized that Andrik had been right. Eric was off for the fortnight, likely drunk, definitely flirting, at a foreign wedding, and in his feverish state Hans thought he must be at Dranhilde itself, though he had not been.

The doctor, not the most learned man, had declared Hans very likely to die. And all the sycophantic underlings, who had nodded at his every whim regarding the siege, had flocked to his most likely successor, declaring allegiance and pleading for prestigious positions. It may have confirmed his darker suspicions about humanity, but it made him believe in Andrik. But when they asked why Hans reinstated him, he didn't mention his illness, and he didn't bring up the question of loyalty, confidence, and truth.

"He's the only one who can dress me properly," Hans had said.

* * *

"Prince Eric is at the gate, Captain," Andrik said breathlessly. Hans had ordered him to alert him when they neared the palace gates.

"And the girl?" asked Hans, as though it were an afterthought.

"She's with him. They're both-," Andrik paused. "Wet."

"Wet?" asked Hans, puzzled.

Andrik frowned, in his quiet, pensive way. "Perhaps you should see for yourself, Sir."

Hans hurried, almost running as he rarely did except in exercise, to the Great Hall. Eric was indeed soaked through, and the attendants bundled him with towels. His hand was entwined with the girl's, and though her silk dress from that morning was thoroughly wet, her scarlet hair retained a strange volume in spite of the damp. She seemed, more than ever, to gleam much like the surface of pond, as though her skin were imbued with the glisten of the water. But while Eric grinned and chatted, her expression was anxious, even bordering on miserable. She saw Hans and shrank back, and it surprised him how it cut him to the quick.

"Don't worry, darling," said Eric, putting his hand on his shoulder. His voice was more playful than comforting. "The Captain is all bark and no bite. Well, frostbite maybe." Eric winked at Hans. "But I won't let him hurt you." Hans grit his jaw in irritation, but waited, patiently, while Eric talked on.

"You should have seen it! Our wallflower-," he chucked her under the chin, and she smiled lightly. "She was in her element. She took the reins from me and nearly took us to our graves, and we danced and had a boat ride and then-," he laughed uproariously, and her expression grew graver still. "We fell into the water! I clearly am very unlucky for a Sailor Prince. Two shipwrecks in a week!" He buried his face in his hands in mock despair. "But I do have the good fortune to have been saved by two beautiful women on both occasions." The company laughed. Eric cast a meaningful glance at the girl, and she blushed. "Perhaps I'll take a dingy out tomorrow and see if I can try for a third time. Wine!"

A glass was handed to him, and he quickly downed it. The girl picked up her glass, and held it to her lips, but didn't drink. She ran her fingers over it absent mindedly, as though taking pleasure in the crystal texture. Grimsby walked slowly into the hallway and looked at his prince, his brow tilted.

"And I forgot the best part," said Eric, beaming. "Our Unfortunate has a name!"

" _Of course she does_ ," murmured Hans. He found something strangely coarse in Eric's behavior. If she was an 'unfortunate,' why make a show of it? But he hung on Eric's words. A name could be a revealing thing, telling tales of origin and class.

"I guessed it myself," Eric said proudly, motioning for more wine, and slipping, even in his wet clothes, onto a nearby sofa. He motioned to the girl, and she approached. He put his arm around her waist, and she smiled uneasily, looking up at the gathering of servants and courtiers, who were all frowning.

 _He's treating her like a whore_. The hair on the back of Han's neck stood up. Though he wanted to find out the mystery of the name, the extreme quiet of the company spoke to the prince's recklessness. _Eric's_ name would be untarnished, but…

"There will be plenty of time for that," he said, trying modulate his voice, but it was hard and stern. "Perhaps you had better let the lady dry off first?"

The girl glanced at him, but quickly pursed her lips to a bitter curve and turned her head, as though he were some lowly being, small and revolting. His shoulders stiffened and he kept bearing in spite of the pang, and set his gaze on Eric.

"Hans, my perpetual schoolmaster," said Eric flippantly. It was hardly fair, when Hans never interfered in the Prince's affairs, and had held back and served him when he every instinct called him to leadership rather than subordination. There were many retorts he could offer; he was royalty and not truly bound here, he could seek his fortune elsewhere. But he was older than Eric, and would not cajole him into further foolishness. It was like twisting into some torturous position, but he disciplined his deepest inclinations, and remained silent.

The prince took another sip of wine. The girl looked at Eric with a discomfiting mixture of longing and desperation, a look that Hans could not decipher or understand.

"Her name is Ariel," he said proudly. "I guessed it myself," he repeated. The girl's face, formerly so melancholy, glowed like a lamp. It was clearly strange and lovely for her, doomed to be mute and yet so recklessly infatuated, to hear her name on his lips.

But _Ariel_. How could the boy have guessed such a name? It was like none he had ever heard. He knew the names of the Northern lands, with their guttural sounds, and the more fluid names of the Southern countries. It was hardly a name for a living girl, but had the suggestion of a spirit, a wraith of a being. Something that would not linger to be touched, but float into the ether. Though that seemed true of her. As much as she clung to Eric, she had a kind of buoyancy that seemed more than any internal structure to hold her upright. Perhaps that was the feature, that otherworldly grace that belied her every uncouth action, that had caused him such initial distrust.

"Well, Hans," said Eric with an irritating familiarity. "Perhaps I should take your advice and bundle myself up. Oh heavens, I might catch a cold!" he added in a matronly voice, and burst into laughter. Hans felt the anger rise within him, but he kept his stance, only letting his hands ball into fists.

Eric glanced at Ariel, expecting her to join in the joke. She broke from her reverie, not a happy one by her expression, and smiled half-heartedly. Hans wondered if she aware she was being denigrated by his casual tone and his arm around her, but with her two hands pressed against his arm, and her head nearly leaning on his shoulder, it seemed that her sorrow sprang from some other source.

Eric rose and bowed to Ariel, in a cavalier motion that could almost be considered mocking, though more likely it was the wine and general sense of mirth.

"It's been quite a day, my dear." Ariel lifted up her fingers as though to say something to him, but, putting her hand on her throat, realized, as though for the first time, that she couldn't. He laughed, taking it all for a fine joke, but as soon as he left her eyelids drooped, and shook her head, her hand still on her throat.

The servants, courtiers and Grimsby trailed behind Eric. Hans began to walk with them, but stopped momentarily, to look on from the shadows. Only sweet, plump Carlotta remained at the couch. Eric's former nursemaid had taken to the girl, dubious reputation or not. She took her hand, and attempted to help her to rise from the sofa, but Ariel, with unusual violence, shook her hand free, and clutched herself, her head cast to the side.

Carlotta stood by helpless, and waited. After a few moments, realizing that Carlotta was still there, Ariel patted her hand, and raised her eyes apologetically. She forced a pained smile and motioned for her to go. Carlotta placed her hand on her hair, the brilliant hair, but with a resigned face and a curtsy, she left.

Hans was not comfortable with his position, watching a girl from the shadows, but he felt fixed in position. He could see, now that she was alone, how frightfully young she was, certainly no more than seventeen. It never occurred to him to ask her age, though he had thought at one point to inquire into every point of her being. Now such a quest seemed not only unnecessary, but perverse and callous, like tearing ripping up a field of wildflowers simply to inspect their roots. It was an odd thought, and he wondered what power she had, to inspire such strange notions in him. They had not had their origin in her; the unwanted imaginative power had come earlier, from the steady realization of his crimes. But it mounted in her presence, to the point he was forced to suppress a shiver.

Ariel kept her eyes closed and rocked herself, mouthing words in such a way that they had to be the words of a song. It seemed a pitiful thing for a mute girl. And something strange happened. The doors flung open, revealing the courtyard, but more plainly in the distance, a rollicking ocean beneath a full and brilliant moon. Almost as though in a trance, Ariel rose and took a sleepwalker's steps toward the entrance. She reached her hands outward, as though invoking some unknown god.

A sea wind swept through her hair, and it tossed behind her, more feral and uncontrolled than he had seen it. And the current hit him too, rich and salty, but now unfamiliar and strangely poignant, as though by passing through her it had acquired a new potency. He turned away momentarily, shaken, and when he looked back, she was shutting the large doors, though she struggled with the lock.

Hans stepped out of the shadows. "Let me help you," he said. She turned rapidly and seeing him, her normally gentle blue eyes shot daggers. He was stunned at the transformation, the weight of her fury. There was a tide of passion in that gaze that belied all her former docility. She turned as though to go.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. Ariel shook it violently away.

"Wait, don't go! I have something to tell you." And his old deceptive nature got the better of him. "Something about Eric."

And she stopped in her tracks, unmoving, as though the name had a singular power over her. She turned and looked up at him, slowly, expectantly, even weary. There was a weight in his gut from his lie, but he suppressed it. _It wasn't such a crime._

"First off, I want to apologize for my outburst this morning. It was unworthy." He bowed slightly, even nervously. _Why was he nervous?_ She was unprotected, powerless, had no rank or family, and he had only ever quaked before power. She nodded quickly, dismissing the apology as soon as she received it. It was not real forgiveness, but a toll she must pay to reach that precious grain of information.

And she mouthed the name. _Eric_. And he would have to say something. To his credit, he gave her the advice he had given himself since he had ceased to be a child.

"Look after yourself first."

Ariel stared. The words meant nothing.

"He is not a bad man, but can sometimes think only of himself. Don't let him-" And he shifted awkwardly, unsure of how to word it. He cleared his throat. "Don't trust Eric. Not too much."

It wasn't the most loyal thing to say, but he knew she needed to hear it. Her hand was held out, not toward him but he took it regardless, slowly, but by an impulse that surprised even himself.

She looked down. A tear spilled onto the carpet. She then lifted her head, her eyes wet and pure disdain in every features, and tore her hand from his grasp. Again, an overwhelming tide of passion seemed to rise within her. She shook her head violently, before fleeing down the hallway.

"Suit yourself!" Hans called out after her, his voice rising in anger. _Concern, decency, what an utter waste_. He lingered for a moment, breathing hard.

 _Once again, she was running away from him_.

* * *

Later that night, he had yet another bout of insomnia. He stoked the remnants of the fire so until a slight blaze formed, and took up the naval text again. Perhaps it would bore him to sleep. His eyelids began to fall, when a strange, stirring sound drifted to his chamber. A human voice. Startled, he hurried to the window.

The night was thick, but through the mist he could make out a woman's figure, straight and slim, walking on the beach with a cloak and dark hair fluttering behind her. She was singing, with such power and beauty it sent a chill down his spine. Behind her, leaning against the castle wall, was Eric, staring and utterly transfixed.

He slammed his shutters closed, drowning out the song. A foreboding, haunting and foreign, overcame him, and shaking, he slunk into his chair and watched the fading embers die.

* * *

 _A/N: I am setting this in the 1810s, in basically a fantasy equivalent of Europe, though there are some differences. This is why Eric's behavior toward Ariel is so shocking. To put your hand on a woman's waist was considered a very intimate gesture, and basically reserved for betrothed couples. That in addition with using pet names, especially in front of the court, would be greatly damaging to her reputation. Ariel, a seemingly disabled girl with no friends or relations, is in a particularly vulnerable position. Coming from an Undersea realm, she is unaware of this, and though he senses there is more to the story and no longer blames her, her ignorance baffles Hans and Eric's carelessness angers him._


	6. Chapter 6

A huge crowd was gathered in the ballroom: all the servants, the higher and lower officers, the noblemen and officials of the city. It was early, but the message was of too much import, and all eyes were open. Some of the ladies carried fans, the older men leaned on canes and the young dandies held them, and the officers all stood upright, just as they had been trained to by their Captain. Yet not a soul stirred. It was a grand room and full to bursting, but there was a terrible silence.

 _The prince was going to marry._

This had been the dearest wish of the court and advisors, to see the prince wed and the line continued. But there was a strange chill as he announced the wedding- tonight- and the bride- who was she?

 _A stranger._

He called her Lady Vanessa, and that was, in his eyes, all they needed to know. The couple was striking: the lady was regal and lovely with a cloud of brown hair, looking over the crowd with a smile both hard and sweet, and eyes that suggested her suspicion was equal to theirs.

She had rescued her, and he explained, in a rather rambling speech, how he owed a debt to her. But the few who knew him well, knew that it went beyond a rescue or a debt, that he had been fixated on the idea of her and the power of her voice. There had of course, been the dalliance with the little mute girl, but that was hardly worth consideration.

Infatuation was not the reason for marriage, and yet he who knew Eric the best looked on with quiet, grandfatherly approval, as though he was glad his young charge would at least be settled before he himself past on. The realities were no doubt more complex, but Grimsby standing at the couple's side lent a certain gravitas to what otherwise could be dismissed as a fancy. Grimsby spoke to the continuity of the royal house, as he had served Eric's father and grandfather before him.

There were questions no doubt- how could a young woman save a man from a shipwreck so distant from the shore? Why would she vanish afterwards?

But Marowind was not the most forward of states in terms of popular representation.

Eric spoke often of changing the edicts of his father's regime, which in times of struggle and rebellion, bordered on draconian. But with his youthful lifestyle, his love for activity and novelty and what he knew as romance, Eric was not one to spend long hours shuttered in a musty room with a council of crusty old men. This was nearly a brilliant, if unintentional, practice, as it allowed him to keep almost absolute power while seeming to be a voice for modernity, but it also meant that these same crusty old men effectively ran the country without his input.

But so far he could choose his wife, and even declare he would marry her that evening, without interference beyond a few casual warnings. There seemed to be some fear in such a declaration; she had slipped away so easily, so he would tie her to him this time, keep and have the voice that had haunted him.

* * *

Hans was in this crowd, and much like the others, he was utterly baffled. It was tied to the vision of last night, that upon waking in his armchair, he dismissed as a dream. He, at least, was not in thrall to Eric: as a royal prince himself, and a foreign one, he could speak as he liked. He genuinely worried for Eric, as no one knew the danger of a quick alliance better than he.

 _You can't marry a man you just met._

He let his instinctual reaction at the old words of his old world drain, and ruminated on their meaning. They were wise words, man or woman, but not exactly true. Eric very well could, and he would.

And then there was- he scanned the room rapidly. She wasn't here, and why would she be? These were all insiders, and belonged here. Was she even aware? There was a strange twisting feeling within him. No, she wasn't. It was a secret alliance formed in the early hours of the morning, and this crowd was the first to hear of it.

 _No doubt she's still in bed, dreaming of her prince_. _The stupid girl._

He had warned her, after all. But the image of her sleeping and still, blissfully aware at once softened and pained him.

 _It's a fool's business._

It was an old story. Many people had their hearts broken, and she barely knew Eric, for heaven's sake. He tilted his head, barely aware of the crowd that had begin to reanimate, shedding their doubts and growing increasingly excited at the prospect of the upcoming wedding. It was to be on the Golden Venture, which meant that only a select few would be able to attend. And the question shifted from 'Who is she?" to 'Who will be invited?' and for the elite, the lucky few that knew beyond a doubt they were, "What will I wear?"

Hans thought of love. A bitter, ugly business.

 _At least for those who had a heart to lose_. And he stared at his cousin who was in turn staring into the bright eyes of his very new beloved. Eric was well known in the city for his romantic notions, and Hans wondered at his duplicity. His own foray into love had been yet more unsavory. It was a game of creating vulnerabilities, making a willing sacrifice before then taking what one could, and he could no longer stomach it.

Ariel had let her heart be bared, and it would be broken like so many foolish souls before her. But why, why, was there such ardent desperation? Clearly there was more at play here. And he laughed low, thinking how he embraced the same concept just two days previously. Yet this time he wasn't seeking treachery, which he knew well, but a foreign, untold concept that seemed, from his short experience with her, to be buried within her like the source of that ethereal gleam.

Every second that she did not know grated on him, and he felt the urge to march upstairs, open the curtains and tell her. _How she would hate him_! He almost laughed, thinking of her venomous glare from the evening before. And yet it would be over- he had once made way for a lingering death, because it was easy, and now he wished for all cuts to be quick.

 _No, let it come from a kinder tongue and more welcome face than his, and by all that was holy, let her sleep. It wouldn't be long._

* * *

A princely wedding, especially one so hastily arranged, required a great deal on the parts of the guards. For perhaps the first time in his reign, and most surprisingly at his own wedding, Eric was eager to forgo to the enthusiasm of the populace in the hopes that the wedding would be swiftly arranged. Town criers, bells- these were all put aside to keep the crowds at bay. Naturally, as Hans knew, Eric would not resist taking his due, and would appear in uniform, his bride on his arm to bask in the adulation in the people- but he would wait. First, the formalities.

Eric was utterly besotted, and Hans wondered, with a wry smile, if this excess of passion was catching. He, at least, was immune. What power the Lady Vanessa had over the prince, he could not say, and he could not understand the potency of a mere voice. And with the courtiers he asked, _Who, or rather, what is she? Did she really save him?_

But he had his duties. It was late afternoon, and the golden venture was soon to be embarked. The word of the wedding had quickly spread through the city- how could it not? And the people, leaving behind their toil, rushed to docks waving handkerchiefs of navy and maroon, some with the small anchor of Marowind in the center. Harmless, mostly, in their enthusiasm and their expectation of free wine and roasted meat on a Wedding Day, a tradition that had gone back to the earliest Princes of Marowind. They both cheered, and called out for their due, and many of them, the bony urchins and hunched beggars, could very well have used it.

As Captain of the guard, it was Hans's job to keep the crowds at bay to allow the elite to pass by in procession and embark. Also, as Captain of the Guard, a foreign prince and the groom's cousin besides, he could have left this task to his underlings. He had said they were all fine men, his officers, and they would surely under normal circumstances do their duty to perfection, but should the worst occur, he must be there to guide them, whatever personal sacrifice to his own wishes. But one glance at Andrik, who the other guards trusted, even while they disliked and envied him, and he knew he was lying. He did not _want_ to attend the wedding.

Soon, a great amount of servants lumbered into the crowd, placing barrels of wine wherever it was convenient, and the crowds cheered. Grimsby had the good sense to haul up the contents of the royal wine cellar to appease the good citizens of the city, late enough to prevent any drunken outrages before the wedding, and soon enough that they would enjoy rather than resent the arrival of the guests. They little realized they were drinking finer wine that they could even have knowledge of, as the cellar had been practically emptied. It wasn't what they were owed, but more than they expected at this hour, and they drank with good cheer

Hans charged back and forth, his eyes constantly darting from the crowd to the slowly proceeding guests, dressed in their finery. Some took their invitation as their due, and others took great pride in their inclusion, which was evident from their upright bearing and excess of jewels, whether authentic or imitation.

He didn't say it to himself, who exactly he was looking for, but he would know her when he saw her. Still irritated at the 'schoolmaster' remark from the night before, he did not deign to advise Eric. While it pained him to see his cousin act with such recklessness, the boy must dig his own grave, as it might very well be, in a marriage so hasty.

 _It may suit him. It may not. In that case he'll find refuge in some new arms soon enough._

But he had, almost against his will, asked about Ariel. Would she attend the wedding? And Eric seemed, for the first time, perturbed. But he shrugged his shoulders with infernal ambivalence.

"If she wants to," he said, his eyes averted. "You can ask her."

Hans fought the urge to burst into bitter laughter. He could play out the scenario in his head. Such words from his lips would be an insult, as though he were delighted that _he was right_ and _she was wrong_. He thought of the intense flicker of eyes from the night before, a dagger-like gaze so at odds with her seeming gentleness, and almost wished to see it again. But what would be interesting to him would cause her pain. So he passed on the invitation to Carlotta, the only person besides Eric, and perhaps Grimsby, who seemed to put Ariel at ease.

"Should I tell her it came from you, dear?" Carlotta had not been his nurse, but she was perhaps the only person in the land who could call him 'dear' with impunity. Yet with her round maternal face and body and large black eyes, he felt strangely comfortable in her presence, almost like the simple beloved child he had never been. He didn't know whether it was his three years away, or Marowind itself, but it seemed momentarily like each person had a particular sphere of power. But he shook the thought away. There was only one power worth mentioning, and that was the power of pure leadership, the power to call out a command, and have it followed implicitly.

And now he looked on, signaling his guard to surround the ever-growing crowd and make way for the guests. But his attention was often diverted to the guests themselves. _One would have thought_ , he thought wryly, _that he was interested in their dress and jewels and titles_. Would Ariel slink over the ramp, with a face stained by tears, or would she, in her internal passion, pass stiffly and surely, pride ruling over her heart, onto the ship? Either would reveal a great deal about her.

But then, there was a third option, far more likely- that she would not come at all. It fit her, in love and proud of her love, to slip away at such a moment. But where would she go? Would she simply vanish, back to her peasant family with a fine glittering ring to show for it, like so many girls before her? He didn't know why, but somehow that seemed impossible.

Eric walked out, his bride in her veil twisted like a vine over his arm, and the crowd cheered uproariously. Hans was forced to reevaluate Grimsby's political sense and timing for the umpteenth time. They had enough to drink to bring them to the peak of excitement, but not enough to cause disorder, though a few praised the beauty of the bride. Eric waved and the Lady Vanessa tilted her head shyly, as was seemly. The cheers grew still louder as they embarked, and Eric himself (with some help) lifted anchor, before rushing back to his bride. They both waved, Eric vigorously, and the lady Vanessa, her head inclined against Eric, with delicately raised fingers.

Hans felt himself impressed with how well it had gone down, considering the circumstances, and felt an ancient and deep set envy that made him almost wish he had set the crowds loose on his cousin.

Eric had announced his intention, that he would marry a complete stranger, and they had gone off into the golden afternoon without an argument, without a hitch. And Eric had little to no political savvy, only his casual charm, good looks, and of course birth, birth that brought with it power. A sole heir.

At certain moments in his upbringing, he would have seen all of his brothers sink under the waves, and had, in uglier hours, listened with envy to the fate of the rulers of Arendelle, who had so courteously paved the way for their daughters. But that would mean his brother Peder, studious, thoughtful, and wise from his youth, would go down with them, and it was a thought so hideous it was beyond comprehension.

 _Full fathom five thy brother lies_

 _Of his bones are coral made_

 _Those are pearls that were his eyes..._

And he shuddered at his instincts, convinced that he was born cursed. Hans wasn't stupid, and knew had been born to wealth and position. But these tools and his native intelligence, which should have raised him above men, had instead disgraced him. It was a perpetual craving, this ambition as raw as hunger, an ambition that always called for more _more_ _MORE._

Hans felt a struggling beneath him, and realized he had been pulling at the reins, causing his horse to whinny and rebel. _A revolt at his rule_. Hans calmed the creature gently, which in turn calmed the turmoil within _him_. If he couldn't control his own horse, he thought with some irony, how could he expect to rule?

The crowd had settled somewhat, now that the ship was on the horizon, and the focus of their excitement had vanished. A musician started up, and a few youthful couples paired up to dance. There was a flush that he had always attributed to a drunken stupor on their young faces, and now realized it was a rise of blood, a current, the first rush of the sentiment he hated. And he sunk into thought.

"Is everything in order, Captain?" asked Andrik, pulling up his horse besides Hans.

"Do you have a sweetheart, Andrik?" asked Hans abruptly, glancing down at the crowd.

Andrik blushed to his ears, and tucked a blonde curl behind his ear. "No, sir. I haven't been-" he blushed again. "So- fortunate in that area." He looked with apparent longing at the couples below.

Hans smiled, and had an impulsive thought. "Why don't you join the dance, then?"

Andrik looked up him in surprise. "I'm on duty, Sir!"

"Yes, duty…" Hans tilted his head and studied his comrade, and the man seemed confused.

"Can you take charge of these crowds?" he asked.

"Of course, Sir. If that's what you wish, Sir."

"Good. Thank you, Andrik." He patted Andrik's shoulder, and turned his horse, surprised at his sudden impulse. He didn't know what drove him. But events had unraveled beyond his expectations, and he didn't like loose ends.

If she was somewhere, _anywhere_ , in this city, he would find her.

* * *

A/N: The 'Full Fathom Five' part is from a song from my favorite Shakespeare play, The Tempest. It is actually sung by a spirit named Ariel, who I think our Little Mermaid was named after. I edited it to say 'Brother' instead of 'Father'. It felt appropriate as it emphasizes the true horror of losing someone to the sea.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N Hurray for sisters! I apologize for not mentioning this previously, but in keeping with the more serious tone of this story, Ariel and other Merfolk do not speak with animals in the same way humans do not. However, being magical beings, their voices have a certain influence on the wildlife around them. Her sisters have taken on the roles of the animals-mentors and friends, with Aquata taking on the role of Sebastian as her reluctant mentor, Arista being her closest companion, like Flounder, and Andrina being the lookout and discovering Vanessa's identity, like Scuttle. I also maaaay have changed their hairstyles…can you forgive me?_

 _They have not been with her on land, but know she is there and have kept her secret. Ariel has likely called to them in her distress. Again, sequels don't exist here, so any character development will be original. Normally, I would not include a note about what is happening as this is from Han's point of view, but one would expect the animals to be helping her and I don't want to cause confusion. I also loved how the sisters tried to help her in the original Andersen story (albeit in a very, very dark way), and I want to call back to that._

* * *

Hans trotted along the dock, occasionally scanning the horizon and squinting. The setting sun cast the ocean in hues of glittering orange. The sound of a joyous crowd echoed behind him, and the distant music of Southern guitars and Northern flutes blended together with a harmony somehow fresh but ancient, the folk melody that had, since early childhood, held the ability to disarm him.

But he rejected its call, tuning it out with thoughts as careful and precise as the song was carefree. The sun was sinking, and when it did, his chance of finding her would grow more distant. If she had slipped into the bowels of the city, he knew he had no chance at all.

He dismounted and secured his horse, and walked to the castle wall. It was an ancient edifice, worn by time and salt, and he realized he never though much about the history of Marowind. He scanned the shore, the fierce light blinding him. Hans rubbed his eyes, and rested them on the green grass underfoot, before lifting his head to a platform directly below, a secondary dock held up by four large mast-like structures. From behind one of these poles, to the left, a stream of red fluttered like a banner in the wind before vanishing. Hans blinked again, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him, but the color was unmistakable.

He rushed to the right, and watched her figure, held up against the pole on the water's edge. Dear God he hoped she wouldn't- his eyes grew wide in alarm. It was too literary, too cliché- how he once would have laughed at such an act!-to cast yourself to waves that carried your beloved away. And yet there was no humor here, nothing but a void, and the distant music, cheerful and constant, made it still worse. Ariel's figure was distant, but he could make out the heaving of her chest, and her fingers that pressed against the pole as though her instincts of self-preservation were fighting her darker impulses. He ran to the foot of the weathered steps and called out to her, but a wind drowned out his voice and sent her hair flying once again.

And to his vast relief, she slumped to the ground, He could see now she was wearing the same dress as yesterday; she had been neglected today, as previously she had been made into a favorite pet. And his coward of a cousin had not said a word.

She was crying, and with her face buried in her hands, and she seemed less ethereal than ever, and more like what she was, a young girl in pain.

Hans took a step forward and then stopped, checking himself. He knew many fine flourishes and courtly graces, though he seldom bothered to use them anymore, and he had learned the hearty but coarse banter of a soldier, but no words of real substance. He could offer nothing but his presence, which had proved itself hateful. He had never felt so poor.

 _Poor_. Hans instinctively placed his hand on the small pouch at his side- gold coins. He had little doubt she had need of them, alone as she was. Would he ever know where she came from, or where she would return to? He lifted the pouch and then, frowning, quickly put it back. They might be the saving of her, but he had little doubt that at that moment that Ariel would take it for the cruelest insult: she would give him that look again, and, trembling with scorn, throw the pouch into the sea.

So he stood where he was, growing angrier by the moment, at her and at her stubbornness, whether he imagined it or not, and frustrated by his own helplessness. He felt the muscles at his back and shoulder tense, and wondered whether he could will himself to turn back, to get on his horse and forget it all. This was his cousin's mess, and no concern of his.

He saw her glance at the water, and finally kneel before it, looking down as though examining her own reflection. Her mouth was moving, and a certain passion overtook her tear-stained eyes. She stood up, shaking a little.

 _And she dove into the water._

Hans felt his throat constrict, and his body, if possible, grow more immobile than before. He must go to her, but she hadn't jumped, she had dove with the agility of a dolphin.

Coming to, he ran to the water's edge. And he gasped. She had utterly disappeared. He dug his fingers into the pole, wondering whether to jump in or not, when a head emerged in the distance, its scarlet striking even against the fiery hue of the water.

 _She was not alone._

At either side was another head, one platinum blonde and the other a rich brown, and as they turned and gesticulated, he could see they belonged two girls of nearly the same age. They seemed to be pulling Ariel along, towards the ship. He rubbed his eyes again, wondering if the glare of the water were playing tricks on him. But no, they were living girls, with their alarmed features at play.

A chill ran through his body, and he remembered a similar chill, years ago, when a powerful queen had cast a barrier of ice around her at her own coronation ball. There was something strange afoot, and it seemed at that moment that his comprehension was fragile indeed.

Were they some evil beings come to spirit her away? But no, Ariel seemed hopeful, almost happy even, at their intervention, and in the brilliance of the sinking sun, he could see they all shared the same unnatural but lovely gleam. There was a kinship between them.

Momentarily dazed, he slunk down the pole, much as Ariel had, just minutes before. The three girls ducked below, and a short while later they reemerged, an impossible distance away.

His habitual vigilance would not allow him to sit for long. _A boat_. He may not have joined the navy, but he certainly could sail. He had to get out there, to unearth this mystery, but he instinctively felt there was a secret at play that was not his to share. But if he were to reach his destination, he would need help.

 _Andrik_. He craned his head toward the gathering at the foot of the castle. The dancing and song continued, but in his head the music had taken on an weird transformation, the melody of an unreachable realm, and he wondered if he had seen too many oddities, if his mind was beginning to turn. But he was not the sort to dream up sea-maidens, and grasping his head and shaking it, he forced himself to focus. He hurried up the stairs and mounting his house, rode to join his aide-de-camp.

Andrik was watching the crowd when he arrived, with more perhaps too much pleasure and not enough vigilance. He nodded and smiled at a young woman wearing a garland of wildflowers, and even threw the guitarist a silver coin, and the man made a deep bow with a flourish of his ridiculous purple hat, somehow without ceasing to strum. If his heart had not been beating so quickly, Hans would have reprimanded his comrade. Instead he took him by the arm.

"Are they peace-peaceful?" he asked, irritated at his unusual stutter.

"Yes, Sir," said his aide-de-camp, coloring slightly as he realized his Captain had seen him throw the coin, or worse yet, nod at the lady. "They're cheerful, but no real drunkenness. There have been some complaints that there wasn't enough whine, but most of the unsatisfied went home. Now it's only harmless dancing."

"Very good. I can spare you then. We've got a mission- just the two of us."

"A mission, sir?" asked Andrik with surprise, and a little excitement.

"How do you like sailing?" asked Hans, glancing at the sea as though they were going for a pleasure cruise. He would have liked to do it as he did most things best- alone- but he could not predict what might happen, and he needed a man he trusted.

"Been doing it since I was a boy, Sir. But you know how it is. With so many good sailors, it's hard to get a decent promotion." He laughed slightly. "Might be a little rusty, though. You _do_ keep us busy, beg your pardon, Sir."

Hans had a fleeting realization of how little he knew about his most loyal comrade, but his mind returned to his goal.

"Follow me. Now."

Andrik nodded. They wove a path to the royal docks, and handed their horses to the grooms. Hans's dinghy was freshly polished and seaworthy, though he rarely used it. The on-duty sailors looked at Hans in surprise, wondering why he wasn't on the wedding ship.

"Seems I'm a little late," he couldn't resist saying, though he glanced anxiously at the ship in the distance. It had anchored, and would not be a long ride, but they had to be _quick_.

The sailors helped him and Andrik step the mast and rig the sails, and they were soon on open water with the sails hoisted. Andrik manned the sails and Hans steered, both with a dexterity that stemmed from early exposure.

The action had calmed him, but as soon as they found their position, and were traveling at a good pace, Hans questioned his actions. He didn't know exactly what his plan was or what he hoped to achieve. He knew well he was not an impulsive man, but here they were, piloting across the waves like two adventurers. Was his motivation pure curiosity? And if _he_ were curious- he looked towards his comrade, who was beaming. Andrik's steady grey eyes were fixed on the horizon, and an fresh breeze twisted through his hair. He scrambled to attention, loosening the sail to catch the incoming wind and Hans turned the craft to starboard.

"You decided to attend the wedding after all," called Andrik. He may have added 'Sir', and most likely did, but his words were lost in the wind.

Hans shrugged, though he knew his motion was stiff.

"This is most unorthodox, Sir," called Andrik, a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

"I'm not all regulations and salutes, Andrik," said Hans, almost smiling himself at what his comrade must think of him. He absent-mindedly wished his man had been able to dance with the girl with the wildflowers, while simultaneously glad his aid-de-camp was with him. His heart was still quick in his chest, and he gritted his teeth and pressed his hands tight against the steering wheel, unsure what would come.

He barely noticed when the craft came to standstill. _But the wind was still blowing_. He turned around to face Andrik, who had tightened the the sails.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growled. "Hoist them- _now_!"

But Andrik was unmoving, his eyes wide. All he could do was lift a trembling hand and point.

" _Look_ ," he said.

The Golden Venture was clearly visible before them, basked in shimmering light. He didn't notice anything amiss at first. The wedding was proceeding, the Lady Vanessa and Eric arm in arm, smiling at each other and prepared to join their fates. Hans blinked twice, and noticed a small flicker from the corner of his eye, the light caught on a sliver of brilliance. A lithe figure slipped up the edge of the ship, using every wooden carved flourish for purchase. Her hair was so blonde is was nearly white, and flowed straight and loose down her back.

 _She had a fish's tail, scaled and red._

"Mermaid!" cried Andrik, and Hans clutched his arm to quiet him.

Another figure had made it higher up the ship, the mahogany waves of her hair slipping down her shoulders. She crouched near the window of the cabin. Her tail was cerulean blue, and her fins twitched as though she were a cat, eager to pounce.

A third, golden haired mermaid clutched a rope, and with remarkable strength, slipped up its length, her burgundy hued tail flicking behind her, before she perched on the edge of ship.

"You don't understand," Andrik's voice nearly broke. "I stopped believing but-" he choked on his words.

"Speak, man!" said Hans, though his voice was stilted as well.

"Every sailor in Marowind insists. They can lure a sailor with a call, and sink a ship with a song. But it's always crews on the high seas, lonely and desperate…"

Hans's breathing deepened. "What would they want with a wedding ship?"

An eerie call broke forth, and Andrik started. "I don't know," he whispered.

The call, high and trilling, came from the red-tailed mermaid. The waves began to toss, and an army of crawling things scurried up the hull of ship. The bride and groom were now standing before the priests, and the guests were looking about in alarm at the odd sound. Hans could not make out the Lady Vanessa's expression, but judging from the stiffness of her shoulders, and the way she gripped Eric's arm before the altar, she was far more insistent on being married than frightened by the changes.

The brown haired mermaid joined in the song, if it could be termed that. Her light blue tail darkened in hue as she called, reflective and mournful, into the air. It had the nostalgic hollow of a gull's cry, and sure enough, a fleet of seabirds arrived from the air, diving into the wedding party. The bride had now lost her composure and was screaming along with the guests, who backed edges of the ship, terrified.

By the shaking of their bodies, the mermaids were laughing. Was this a mere prank? But the crabs had scurried over the edge of the ship, and their fury seemed directed at the bride. The slipped up her legs over her dress, and she was nearly covered with them. She screamed, plucking them off one by one. Eric jumped away in horror, but reached out his arm toward her.

Hans was sick at the sight. With a single motion of her hands, the crabs were repulsed from the bride's body as though by an electric jolt, and they scurried back over the ship's edge, and fell in a shower to the water. Hans could not make out the bride's expression, but her gown was dirty and torn, her hair unkempt, and her movements unnatural.

The mermaid with the golden haired opened her arms, and her low and guttural cry had a physical impact on Hans, pushing him backwards. A group of sea-lions rose to the water's edge, barking wildly, and she seemed delighted. A pod of dolphins played merrily around the hull, as though influenced by the mermaids' glee. The golden haired mermaid, with her unlikely strength, hoisted a trio of sea lions one by one onto the deck, where they wreaked further havoc, directed once again at the bride.

At this moment, from the far end of the ship, Hans could make out a slender figure, a girl- Ariel- slipping over the edge of the ship. She had no tail and was not one of them, but somehow these creatures were her protectors. He felt a strange satisfaction that she had _someone_ , as unholy as these sirens were. She stood there, watching with some anxiety, but no terror, her eyes fixed all the while on Eric. Was there some witchcraft to her, with these beings who seemed aligned with her will, and attacked the greatest impediment to her happiness?

The sea lions were gnawing at the bride's legs, but even with their strong jaws, she seemed impermeable. Teeth that should have rent her flesh from her body and broken her bones simply irritated her, and she kicked at them when she had the chance. The mermaids continued to laugh, touching each others' arms and pointing. Finally the bride fell to the ground, and she reached out in horror as her necklace snapped and slipped from her neck.

There was a powerful burst of light as the amulet hit the deck. Another song, more powerful yet, but sweeter and purer in tone, shook the very surface of the sea, causing the dinghy to rock. The unearthly light drifted until it enveloped Ariel's body and pulsed in her throat. Soon the song lifted through her lips, and her face glowed like a lamp.

 _She was singing._ Eric hurried to her, and they were talking. Hans was still in utter confusion, but it seemed a that voice through some odd power had been stolen, was finally returned.

 _But what kind of girl could sing like that, with such-_

Her body contorted in agony, and she fell to the ground as the sun sank over the horizon. Hans could make out a sparkling green tail flicking beneath her dress. She was- one of _them_. He had seen strange things, but-

He did not know what his presence might accomplish, but he felt an overwhelming urge to be there, to delve into this mystery, holy or infernal, to influence, and perhaps even protect, though _who_ needed protection from _whom_ he could not say.

"Andrik-" he said. "Hoist the sail."

Andrik shook his head slowly.

Hans stood up, and the dingy rocked. A fierce gale tossed his hair, and he pushed it back "So," he called mockingly, "My own aide-de-camp, a coward!"

"It isn't a question of cowardice!" Andrik yelled, also standing. The winds were picking up with the darkening sky. "They have enchantment beyond us! Mortal men can't deal with their kind!"

Hans snorted. "It's not far. I can swim well enough." He turned to dive.

"Captain!" Andrik tackled him, dragging him back to the boat. "They've enchanted you, idiot!" Hans kneed him the stomach and rose to his haunches.

"Fine, I'll fight you, fool," said Andrik, the guilt and frustration clear in his voice, "But this for your own good." And the two men brawled in the shadows, illuminated only by the rising moon. The dinghy rocked precariously beneath them, but neither was concerned. Their breath grew ragged and eyes fierce. Hans was _going_ to get to that ship, but Andrik would have none of it.

Hans threw yet another punch, and Andrik expertly dodged it once again. Hans was luckier the next time, cracking the corner of Andrik's jaw, and Andrik kicked him in the chest, winding him. Struggling, Hans rose to his feet. With the pitching boat, he felt an urge to vomit, but suppressed it. He fixed his eyes on his opponent, and reached for his throat.

A shadow, darker than night, loomed over them. They were locked in position, Hans still gripping Andrik's throat. The dinghy spun below them from a monumental shift in the tides, and they slowly lifted their heads. There, illuminated, and rising from the water, was a massive and hideous demon of unimaginable proportions, a glittering crown on its head. The creature laughed, a pitch from the deepest bowels of the ocean, of hell perhaps, and the tides shifted.

A powerful surge of water tossed over them, upending their craft and throwing the two of them, still clutching each other, into the black water below.


	8. Chapter 8

The Royal Library of Marowind was hardly worth the title, and Signa, now Professor Valend, coughed as she walked into the musty Main Room. She was a tall woman with upright posture, in her late twenties and her curly ash-blonde was in a haphazard braid behind her. Several rebellious curls strayed around her temples, giving her an unscholarly look that she greatly resented. But they were tamer now, now that they had been soaked in seawater. She would have to remember that. Signa shivered slightly, thinking of the night before, the night in the hold of the Golden Venture. Her dress was rust stained and torn, and she was grateful that her title as Professor allowed her to borrow a scholar's robe from the library wardrobe- even if several inches of dirty lace peeked out from below. She was shaken, but she would not allow a little encounter with a sea witch to prevent her from getting her hands on _that book_ first.

She frowned at the librarian, a former naval officer who was now eighty at the youngest, but still decked out in naval regalia, with flags and etchings of various ships above his desk. Her quick eyes scanned the shelves, and she quickly made her way to the back. She pursed her lips as she passed by the clean and well-ordered shelves of engineering manuals and books of all things Naval, and into the back, what she termed the 'dark recesses' of the library, where the other studies were stacked in no particular order, worm-eaten and coated in dust.

 _This would take a while._

Marowind was not an academic country. It took pride in its schools of engineering and mathematics, which had produced an impressive generation of Naval architects and navigators, but the other schools of the University were in a sad state. Signa had taken to history, to philosophy and the classics to no avail. She had even considered starting a career in Arendelle, though secretly she enjoyed being a voice of dissent. Now, as larger states had honed in, threatening Marowind's very existence, the people had begun to take a greater interest in their cultural heritage. This is how Signa had gained a position as the youngest, well, the first, Professor of Folk Culture at Audlin University.

It was an odd thing that the University, so dismissive of the 'unpractical arts', had itself been named after an early Marowinian folk heroine, Audlin of the Oak.

 _Let it be known that when Audlin was a maid of ten, her father, Morovake, was slaughtered by the invading Rhovians. As the first drops of his blood hit the soil, a fine young oak sprouted from the earth. Audlin watered the tree with her tears until it grew tall and strong. When she reached womanhood, the tree began to wilt, and no matter what she did to save it, it was clear it was dying._

 _"Why are you leaving me?" she cried at last, kneeling at the foot of the tree._

 _"The Rhovians return. You must avenge me and protect our land," said the tree, though the voice did not sprout from the oak but from the passing wind._

 _"Protect our land," echoed the tall grasses, bending in the breeze._

 _"Carve from me a boat, and weave the sails by your own hand. Do this alone, take to sea, and my cutlass and I will guide you."_

 _"I will guide you," echoed the grasses._

 _Audlin paused, and firm, she took an ax and in the coming days felled the tree she loved so dearly, and in the coming weeks carved it into a small seafaring craft. She took to her loom and wove the sails. She put the boat to water, and wielding her father's cutlass, hoisted the sails._

 _The Marowinians, heartened by her example, followed her into battle. The oak craft, moved with unnatural speed and ability, and Audlin, who sprung among her enemies, cut them down before they could invade her homeland, slicing the hulls of the ships so that they swallowed water as salty as her tears and sunk to the bottom of the seas, plunder for the Merfolk._

It was not a pretty tale for children, though every Marowinian schoolchild knew it by heart, and it was retold in countless pantomimes and songs. It spoke to the ancient Marowinian tradition of blood feuds, raiding parties and family loyalty. Most folk tales from this land held a seed of darkness, and the book she was seeking was no different. And that last bit was a tantalizing hint- _plunder for the Merfolk_. They could have taken the weapons and valuable parts of ship for themselves, but they let them sink. Was it a tribute? Did her ancestors worship, or at least revere these beings?

Rokevar the Chronicler had been considered a man of learning, perhaps the greatest scholar Marowind ever produced. But he had been destroyed by a single book. He could have been burnt alive in that superstitious age, but instead he was dismissed as a madman. Judging by his writing, he likely would have preferred the pyre.

 _The Seven Ways of Marowind._ Signa put her finger to her lip, and scanned the unruly scattering of books. It could be dust right now. She ran her fingers along the faded bindings. Standing on her toes, she reached for a heavy tome, faded orange with chipped gilding, nudging it carefully.

She slipped, bumping into the bookcase, and a volume fell, knocking her in the shoulder and slamming her toes. She gripped her shoulder, and hopped about simultaneously.

"Errrgh!" She called out, thankful for the deafness of the librarian. Signa knelt down towards the book, planning to scoop it up and put it in the _correct_ place. But that handwriting-

She blinked, and crouched on the ground, in great contrast to her usual dignified posture. It was very, very small, very curly, and most definitely the handwriting of Rokevar the Chronicler.

Her eyes grew wet, and though she never, ever cried, she was tempted to. Though to do so could stain the precious parchment, and the worse yet, blur the words of the book that would prove so very necessary. Gently, as though it were a small baby, she lifted in in her arms, feeling a surge of emotion at the torn binding. She restrained herself. Otherwise she would utter some unseemly words at that librarian.

Either way, this book was _not_ staying here, where it was had been so sadly neglected. No book was supposed to leave the Royal Library, and there was a reading room upstairs, as sleekly polished as a new Marowinian warship.

Perhaps it was selfish of her, to take this book when there was such a need of it, but it didn't occur to her. She knew her countrymen too well, with their two poles of hard-nosed skepticism and fearful superstition, and didn't trust them with such nuanced writing. Signa had no intention of hoarding the knowledge within, but she believed in her own scholarship, that she was the best interpreter of the ancient text.

She was wondering if her fingertips were indeed tingling, or if she were just imagining it, when a small troop of guards burst through the library doors. She held her breath for her moment, and the book close to her heart.

It was the Royal Guard, in formation as though poised for battle, and she had an inkling of what they were looking for. Their snobbish captain, that foreign prince who had little but a sneer for anyone, was not among them.

She peered through the bookshelves, turned her head up towards the staircase leading to the reading room. No, best to stay still, and she maintained the poise of a cat.

The librarian looked them over, before dismissing them with a snort. The Navy, not the Guard or the Army, was the place for young men, and all the epaulettes and brass buttons in the world would not make up for that.

" _Rokevar_ ," choked a beardless Lieutenant, and he scanned the library as though it were a place of witchcraft.

"Boots," said the librarian firmly.

"No! A BOOK! said another officer, shaking his head. "The old fool's stone deaf. ROKEVAR!" he yelled, shattering Signa's nerves.

The librarian rolled his eyes and pointed fiercely to the mat in front of the doors. His lips were curled from the splotches of mud on his lovely polished floors. "WIPE YER BOOTS," he yelled back. Cowed, the soldiers scuffed their feet against the mat, all the while muttering about priorities and evil forces in the land, and the stupidity of old men.

With his command obeyed, the librarian slunk yawning back into his chair, back into the role of mild, half-aware old man. Question after question he evaded until he was forced to yell, "I know any Raggedbone and don't care to either!" The distraction allowed Signa to stuff the _Seven Ways_ under her robe, but she panicked. It didn't look right, not at all. She pulled off the starched petticoat from underneath her dress, wrapped the book inside, and buttoned the scholar's robe tightly around it so she had the appearance of a protruding belly. Not dignified, but believable at least.

The officers, heaving with frustration, had their revenge against the wayward librarian. They flipped the pages of his precious naval volumes, before dropping them. Signa couldn't help pitying the old man- she knew his anguish- though he justly deserved it after neglecting so many fine books.

They seemed to linger in the well-kept naval and engineering section as though the aura of dust and decaying paper in the neglected backroom served as an invisible shield. They seemed in fact, ready to leave, and most of them had gathered at the front, but the beardless youth, intrepid, crept into the dark corner of the library. He scanned the books, though Signa knew it would be useless to him, just as it was useless for her to bother to hide.

"Professor Valend?" he looked up at her with surprise. Her mouth opened. Yes, he had been her student, but not a promising or eager one, and had left the course early. She was not good with names to begin with, so it seemed to best to divert him. She studied the markings on his badge

"A Lieutenant of the King's Guard!" she exclaimed, beaming.

"Oh yes, this," he said, blushing. And then, through obvious effort, he tightened his face. "What brings you back-" his sniffed as his surroundings- "Back here."

She twisted a finger around one of the hated curls at her forehead, trying to appear for the first time less than scholarly. "Folk tales, fairy tales," she said, and would have giggled were she capable of it.

"Stories to tell the little one," he said, and she looked at him in confusion before he pointed to her stomach. And there was her round false belly, held together only by her stance and a few little buttons.

"Of course," she answered, controlling her features, which were prone to twitch at moments like this.

The young man's eyes flashed behind her, and she turned her head. There was an attractive volume, one she had missed, huge with gold filigree and mother of pearl at the spine.

The boy's eyes opened wide. It had to be- and Signa shrank back, realizing how narrow aisle row of books was. He pushed on ahead, and in doing so, squashed her supposedly pregnant belly and brushed up against the hard surface of the _Seven Ways of Marowind_.

"You- you're not-," and his eyes opened wide. He gripped her arm and let out of a general cry, and Signa was forced to do something beneath her dignity. She wrenched her arms from his grasp with surprising ease, and hurried up the steps of the reading room. She knew it well, and knew the window in the far corner led to courtyard, and from there she could easily slip into the winding streets below. For all her breaks from tradition, she had not been brought to jump from _any_ window, especially a second story one. But some things were beyond decorum. She opened the window, and with a small gasp, leapt into bushes, which, while they certainly broke her fall, left her covered in small thrones. Her robe had burst open, the Chronicle was lying, safe but exposed at her feet, and three officers had mobbed at the window. Worse yet, she was sweating. She snatched the book, and not looking behind her, twisted through the labyrinthine back alleys behind the palace.

It was only later that she realized with horror that she had left her petticoat behind her for all the officers to gape at.


	9. Chapter 9

Hans groaned, and blinked in the early morning light, as gentle as it was. It felt as though every muscle had been pulled, and worse yet- the sky was shifting. And he realized then that it was he who was moving, bobbing up and down on some craft on the water.

He forced himself up slightly, and would have fallen back promptly were Andrik not there, watching the sunrise with the calm of a sightseer. Hans felt strangely annoyed by his aide-de-camp's placidity, but he couldn't say why. He pushed himself up on his elbows to examine his surroundings.

"Where are we?" he asked. His voice was hoarse, and his mouth salty and dry. He was _thirsty_.

Andrik shrugged, an act of disrespect from a subordinate soldier if there ever was one, but it was clear he was as dazed as Hans was. Hans struggled to see what was different about him, beyond the blinking gaze and tattered, salt-soaked clothing, and noticed his left jaw and cheek were swollen. He basked in a strange satisfaction, unworthy as it was.

"No sail?" he asked, a foolish question, as where the mast had been was a splintered stump.

Andrik shook his head, and Hans was irritated again, by this man and his nonchalance, but he finally spoke. "We'll get there, Sir," Andrik said, his voice, always so full and rich, now raspy. It sounded painful. Andrik pointed, and Hans, twisting, noted a wooded shore in the distance. He fell back with a sigh, halfway between frustration and resignation.

And of the night before- what had happened, if it were possibly true and not a shared madness- they did not speak. They were too weary, too dazed to speak. Hans had never felt so of one mind with another person as he did with Andrik, in their unspoken agreement to remain silent, and not stir up explosive events while neither had the strength to process them. There was just the one thing-

"You fished me out of the water, didn't you?" It sounded very much like an accusation.

"I did," said Andrik wearily, and Hans suppressed a groan. Being in debt, and for his life of all things, didn't sit well with him. But it could all be solved, all be sorted through. They would make it to land, and then-

There were no woods in close proximity to the capitol. He made a silent appeal- _to who, Trident?-_ that it wasn't an island.

Andrik rose carefully. The boat rocked lightly, but Hans didn't care. He scanned the coastline with worn eyes, and croaked something.

"Speak up, man," said Hans, though his own words were barely a cough.

"The Favar Wood." He looked down at Hans and he smiled, his dry lips cracking. "I grew up here. I mean- in the area."

"So we will live?" There was a faint smile on his own lips.

"Very likely," replied Andrik, with flippant air so unlike him. Perhaps the lack of water had gone to his head.

They had pulled the sorry remains of the dingy from the water to the very edge of the wood, and had collapsed on the periphery where the soil met the sand.

"Water," said Hans, saying what was foremost in their minds. Images of merfolk seemed a hallucination beside the reality of thirst.

Andrik began to stand, wobbling slightly. "Getting my land legs," he said, and Hans thought of a distant girl, unsteady on her feet. "There's natural springs in the area, sir. Even a waterfall if we get close to the village."

Hans nodded, but his mind had wandered to the tide and how it grazed the shore and pulled back as though frightened.

"So, sir, would you prefer an acorn cup, or a perhaps a mushroom?"

Hans, knocked from his reverie, looked up into Andrik's sunburned face. "What?"

"I mean you'll have to come with me if you want to get a proper drink."

Hans frowned at his aide-de-campe. He was too familiar. He was insubordinate. And worst of all, Hans liked it.

He sprang to his feet to outdo Andrik, only to be struck with a fierce cramping in histthighs. Gritting his teeth, he ignored it, and walked ahead stiffly. Andrik shrugged his shoulders and followed. Hans had the sense that were his throat not so parched, the man would have had the gall to whistle.

They found their water, and they followed it upstream, past an abandoned mill and broken dam that Andrik could not resist climbing on it- 'for old time's sake." Hans watched Andrik's reflection in the water as he balanced precariously on the collapsing stones. And the next natural step was to turn and look down at himself. The surface trembled, and he could only make out the obvious. His hair was disheveled and thick from saltwater, and it seemed- though he could not say for certain- that his right eye was black and the cheek beneath it spotted with bruises. He touched the area, and it was tender.

Now, invigorated by fresh water and the hike, Hans could think-almost. He stared into the stream, beyond his own reflection to the stones below, noting even the movement of the small fish as they darted in and out of the crevices. He had seen something out of legend, but that had happened before. The shock was still there, just as it had been when the newly crowned queen of Arendelle barricaded herself in ice on the ballroom floor. But then there had been a rising adrenaline, a sense of adventure, some new frontier to be explored and seized.

This was different. There was mystery still, but it seemed as though it were burrowed inside of him, never to be released. He wondered momentarily if he had been enchanted, if his wits had been stolen away.

And the questions came in succession. Had the ship gone down- had Eric survived? What was that unholy being and who had summoned it? He could still feel its laugh reverberating in his bones. And she- Ariel? By what enchantment had she come on land? Or was she a human girl, cursed into the mermaid form? No, something had always been off about her. What seemed like madness was otherworldliness.

As he strode with Andrik through the length of the forest, past a wildflower dotted clearing and into a small village, he realized he had not fully regained his senses. The warm atmosphere, the scent of warmed pine and crushed moss underfoot lacked the grip of reality. He could no longer blame it on thirst and he felt absurdly vulnerable. His quick perception, the taking in and analysis of details, had been everything to him, and without this stability underfoot he felt like, like- he shook his head at the absurdity of the notion- _other_ people.

He saw Andrik's cottage in the afternoon light, with its rows of herbs in the front. He met Andrik's mother, and saw in her his comrade's curly blonde hair and high cheekbones. He broke bread with her, listened to her friendly chatter, and responded in kind.

But he was not fully there. A sip of ale, and he was still watching Ariel's shattering frame as she broke into her mermaid form. A polite gesture, and in the look of agony on her face looped in his mind- was it the pain of contortion or was it loss, the loss of Eric of all people? As he stood at the gate, waving goodbye to the kindly woman in her apron, he was rocking on the ocean's edge, the intense desire to dive toward the ship still ripe within him.

Andrik wasn't a chatterer by nature, but Han's silence goaded him to speech. It was he who rented the horses from his mother's meager savings, and with a clearing of his throat and a widening of his clear grey eyes as he announced the price, pulled Hans out of his stupor long enough to promise to pay him back.

They were poor beasts, more fit for the fields than riding, and Andrik talked on, his voice rising and slumping with heavy hoof beats. It was nonsense, mostly local myths and children's tales. With his innate tact he shed the folklore of Marowind of most of its glory, and avoided any reference to oceans, or merfolk, or even _ships._ That left mostly cellar elves and attic goblins, and though he made a fool of himself, he managed to get a laugh out of his morose captain. But he had to say more.

"They lived, I think." said Andrik, turning his toward Hans with such eagerness that their horses knocked heads. Andrik flushed and quickly yanked the reigns. "I mean, the wedding party, and Eric."

"What gives you that impression?" said Hans in a weary tone.

"I fell in the water after you, you know."

Hans's smile was dark and slight. "The boat toppled."

Andrik's lips pursed together and he hid the irritation in his voice. "And I fished you out. And righted the boat."

Hans turned toward him and his eyebrows rose. "You saw something then?"

Andrik bit his lip. He not only hated to lie, he was terrible at it. "Just blackness."

Hans chuckled. "But I haven't gone mad I hope. You saw- before then."

Andrik rubbed the bone talisman strung from his neck. It was from a witch in the Favar wood- no one spoke of her openly, but his mother had secured it for him when had grown old enough to sail, and every boy in his village and most in his province had one like it. He had hoped by not speaking they could ward off the evil, for even now, surrounded by young fields of grain in the long sunset, out of sight of the shore, malicious influences could linger.

"You know I did. The- the mermaids. Don't fear, Sir. The Golden Venture was blessed with salt and scorched earth like every ship in the Royal fleet. I only fear-"

He turned and noticed that Hans was sneering, and he didn't know if it was in mockery of him, or the disbelief in the blessing. He _was_ from another land, after all.

"What do you fear, Andrik?"

"I fear for the Prince, Sir." He shuddered slightly. "He lives, I believe it, but these creatures are capable of great evil. The girl, or whatever she was, she was clinging to Eric in those last says, and who knows what enchantments she might have placed on him. And he rules us all…"

Hans's body stiffened and his expression was blank. He had pulled on the reigns of his horse, and Andrik did the same. The captain's green eyes grew wide- with horror perhaps, and he was breathing deeply. With his hair thick and ragged around his face, he looked like a madman.

"Sir-I- it will be okay," he said.

Hans said nothing. He goaded the poor plough horse to a gallop towards the capitol, and Andrik, his thoughts racing, trailed behind him.


End file.
